Something New (11 page)

“Want me to get it?” I ask, knowing she will say no. A perfect hostess never lets another guest open the door. It would be
trés gauche
.

Jill shakes her head and slides the sheet pan my way, wordlessly asking me to plate the apps, then heads for the front door. The phyllo triangles burn my fingertips as I transfer them to the serving tray. I can just hear Jill’s lilting voice wafting in from the foyer. A moment later, she appears in the kitchen followed by none other than Ben Campbell.

I jerk with surprise, sending the sheet pan and the half-dozen spanakopita I had yet to plate flailing through the air and onto the tile floor. The pan hits with a hearty
clang
and the spanakopita make no sound at all.

God, I am so glad I put on lipstick.

Ben grins. Really, what else can he do? “Hi,” is all he says.

I collapse to the floor to gather the fallen appetizers, using a napkin to sweep up the phyllo crumbs. “Hi,” I say, my focus firmly fixed on the tile.

“This is my new next-door neighbor, Ben Campbell,” Jill says nonchalantly, as though my toppling over hors d’oeuvres happens all the time. To Ben she says, “And this is my cousin Ellen. Don’t mind her. She’s kind of a klutz.”

Thanks a goddamn lot!
I think.

“Good to see you again,” Ben says as I haul myself to my feet. I throw the spanakopita away, despite the spanking-clean floor, and set the pan next to the sink. With nowhere else to look, I finally meet his eyes.

“You, too.”

Jill cocks her head in my direction, and although I am not looking at her, I can feel her speculative gaze.

“We’ve actually met several times,” Ben says.

“Ben’s son, Liam? He’s on Matt’s soccer team,” I explain.

He furrows his brow and looks at his watch. “What’s it been, eight hours since our last rendezvous?”

“We ran into each other at Trader Joe’s.”

“Your cousin had the decency to show me around the store,” he adds.

Jill nods and says, “Ah. Well, Ben just came over to give me his wife’s regrets. I invited her to join tonight, but she can’t make it.”

“Duty calls,” Ben says, then shrugs. “She’s working on the wetlands suit.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I see Jill’s eyes go wide. “Wow. That’s major!” she says, clearly impressed.

I guess I ought to brush up on local current events. Are the wetlands suing somebody, or is somebody suing the wetlands, and how would that work anyway? How does a piece of land instigate a lawsuit in the first place? Uh-oh. I need more wine.

“Well, I know you’ve got people coming,” Ben says. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“No, no!” Jill exclaims. “The girls won’t be here for another fifteen minutes, at least. Have a glass of wine.”

He shakes his head regretfully. “The boys are waiting for me. Pizza night, you know.” He turns toward the foyer, then
glances back at me. “By the way. How’d the cheese balls come out?”

I smile modestly and let Jill do my bragging for me.

“They are the best she’s ever made, Ben, really! Here. Try one.” Using silver-plated tongs, she daintily and deftly lifts one of the golden orbs from the tray and places it on a napkin. (My Auntie Pam would be proud.) She then puts the napkin in his waiting hand. Without the reverence Jill so clearly thinks is due, he grabs it and tosses it into his mouth. I watch him as he chews, note his slight pause as the flavors hit his taste buds. He shakes his head, chewing more slowly now, as if savoring every second that my cheese ball graces his tongue.

Am I sweating? Very definitely.

“That is amazing,” he finally proclaims, then gives me one of those direct gazes. And yes, it has the same impact this time as it had before. “You’re good.”

Must be the oven
, I tell myself, resisting the urge to fan myself.

“Thanks. Secret family recipe.”

“I better go before I steal the whole tray.”

“Take another,” Jill insists, tongs at the ready.

“No, really, thanks,” he tells her, then shifts his focus to me. “But if you have any left over, you know where to find me.”

“What the h-e-l-l was that?”

“What are you talking about?” I say, injecting as much innocence into my tone as I possibly can. Which isn’t much, I’m afraid. I’m feeling too pleased with myself and my cheese balls. It wouldn’t matter anyway because Jill is on to me.

“I’m talking about you and my hubba-hubba next-door neighbor. Since when are the two of you so chummy?”

“For God’s sake, Jill, I just met him last week, in front of your house.” Was it really only last week? I feel as if we’ve been “running into each other” for ages. “We talked a little at soccer practice, that’s all. And I ran into him this morning at Trader Joe’s.”

She nods knowingly. “And?”

“And nothing!”

“I know that look, Ellen,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me sharply. “You had that look on your face for two hours after we saw
Australia
.”

All right, I admit, it was a terrible movie, but the scene where Hugh Jackman dumps a bucket of water over his torso kind of hit me hard.

“I do
not
have that look,” I tell her. I couldn’t possibly, since I’ve never seen Ben Campbell dump a bucket of water over his own torso, but I’m starting to conjure up a pretty good image in my brain just about now.

Stop
, I tell myself. This will come to no good. I’ll start comparing Ben’s hypothetical wet torso to Jonah’s nonhypothetical and very un-
Australia
wet torso, and then I won’t ever be able to look at Jonah’s naked body again, let alone allow it on top of me. Crap.

“He
likes
you,” Jill says, and I suddenly feel like I’m in a Judy Blume novel.

“He does
not
!” I say.

“Look.” Jill is suddenly serious, so I quickly take a large gulp of wine in preparation for what’s about to come out of her mouth, because I know I won’t like it. “I know you have this whole low self-esteem thing going—”

“I do not!”

“But you are a beautiful woman who only occasionally wears sweats with holes in them.”

“Stop.”

“And when you take the time to pluck your eyebrows—wow!”

“Shut up.”

“Plus, you’re very smart and witty—”

“Jill—”

“What I’m saying is—”

“Don’t—”

“It is not completely out of the realm of possibility for a totally hot man to be attracted to you. Seriously, why wouldn’t he be?”

Oh, let me count the reasons
, I think.

“For one, he’s married. To a totally brilliant environmental lawyer. For two, I’m married…to Jonah.”

“Hey, Ellen, I’m not saying you should jump his bones or anything. But a little flirtation with someone whose name you do not share is never a bad thing. Trust me.”

I look at her, totally agog. I have known Jill my whole life, and I have always known that she is a coquette of the first order, but she has always vehemently denied it, telling me that I confuse “flirting” with her intrinsic Southern charm (even though she left the South when she was still in diapers). This is the first time she has ever admitted this to me.

“Sometimes,” she says, “a little extramarital flirtation is the only thing that gets me through the day.”

I am about to delve further into the topic when the doorbell rings. Seven o’clock on the dot. The book club ladies have arrived.

Jill’s
living room is abuzz with the chatter of the seven of us as we partake of wine and appetizers and—yes, Jonah—gossip. The first hour of book club is
always
about mingling, catching up, and drinking wine. Right now, Mia Franklin is talking excitedly to Sandy Herman about this fabulous hair-straightening product she found at Nordstrom. I know for a fact that Mia’s African American locks have been subjected to a pantheon of chemicals in order to smooth out their kinks, and I am surprised that she still has any hair left on her head. Regan Stillwater and Liza Pierce are giggling about the new produce guy at the local Vons. Regan has apparently taken to surreptitiously knocking over assorted fruit and vegetables just to watch him bend over and pick them up. Mona Emmerson is trailing Jill like a Sherpa, helping her transfer the platters from the kitchen to the coffee table, chirping about how much she
loves
the plain gold-trimmed napkins because they are
so
elegant.

I give Jill a wink and she covertly rolls her eyes at me while simultaneously thanking Mona for the compliment.

The seven women who make up this club, myself included, are very different, with varied life experiences and outlooks, but we all share the same love of books. And our differences are actually what make book club so entertaining. We have never all agreed on a book, not once. I think that’s what keeps us coming back. We often joke that if we ever do, that will be a sign that book club is officially over.

Mona is older and comes across as a bit conservative, and she doesn’t like any book that has expletives in it on principle, no matter the genre. She has three grown kids and four grandkids, volunteers for her church, makes quilts, and has been married to the same man for close to forty years.

Mia, on the other hand, is a brash former social worker
and current high school principal who tells it like it is and doesn’t take shit from anyone. She and her husband Sidney have two kids, one boy and one girl, who are both out of the house already (because she started squeezing them out when she was twenty) and both of whom salute her like a drill sergeant whenever they come for a visit. (I should mention that the salute is
always
followed by a hug.)

Liza Pierce has lived in Garden Hills her whole life. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, she’s never left the country. She has the full-time job of refereeing her four kids, whom she drives around in her metallic green Freestyle with the family-of-six decals in the back window, and a part-time job working for her husband, who cleans air ducts.

Sandy is in her late forties, with a husband and a teenage son. She works as a department manager at the local Kohl’s and spends her days dealing with high-strung shoppers who bleat and screech and throw tantrums when their scratcher coupons reveal that they got the fifteen percent discount instead of thirty percent. (Though she says her
employee
discount makes it all worthwhile.)

Regan Stillwater is a sassy and cynical divorcée whose two kids live with her ex and his twenty-something wife in the Bay Area, leaving her to bask in her sizable alimony with various pool boys and, apparently, grocery store stock boys. She is outspoken and irreverent and may or may not have been a porn star in her youth. I totally love her.

And this is why I adore book club. Where else could you find such opposing personalities gathered together, all getting along and having a terrific time? The UN should take note. We have formed a sorority and everyone is allowed to express her opinion and disagree and debate. Sometimes voices are raised. One time, an argument almost came to blows. But at the end of the night, we all leave as friends.
A typical discussion about a particular book might go as follows:

Mona: “Why does the character have to say the F-word in every sentence?”

Mia: “Because he’s from the fucking streets. This is not a fucking ‘tea and crumpets’ story.”

Liza: “I can see Mona’s point, but Mia’s right about the character.”

Jill: “The point is not that he says f-u-c-k every other word. The point is that he is a tortured soul who has never felt tenderness or affection in his entire life and who has no chance of ever finding true happiness because he carries around the excess baggage of his youth.”

Sandy: “It’s too bad he can’t turn himself around. He does have the potential.”

Regan: “Oh, who gives a crap? It was a crap novel anyway. Where’s the wine?”

I tend to keep my mouth shut and listen for the better part of our meetings. I find the interaction fascinating. And I have to say that I have never met a book I didn’t like. Wait, I’ll amend that statement. I have never read a book in which I couldn’t find some redeeming characteristic. Faults? Yes. Clunky language, certainly. But a book doesn’t just happen. It is the blood, sweat, and tears of some masochistic, self-flagellating workaholic who has the fortitude and determination to actually finish something, no matter the price. It is hard for me to condemn a novel as rubbish. I like some more than others, and I dislike many things about some, but I honestly have never put a book down and not finished it. No matter how banal, I always want to know how it ends.

But I do love the debate.

Forty-five minutes later, we have moved on to that portion
of the evening, and all of my cohorts are dissing the latest James Patterson novel, which was Sandy’s choice. (Sandy likes murder mysteries. They’re safe and dependable, just like she is.)

“Well, I think Mr. Patterson has just gotten too big for his britches,” says Mia. “I mean, how masturbatory can you be?”

Mona flinches, Liza giggles, and Regan doesn’t miss a beat. “Are you asking me personally?”

“I would never ask
you
about your self-love schedule, girl. Don’t have that much time!”